


Wondrous Strange

by Crazy_Dumpling



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-08
Updated: 2010-07-08
Packaged: 2017-10-10 10:58:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/98999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crazy_Dumpling/pseuds/Crazy_Dumpling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amy's away and her boys decide to see how they do on their own. But obviously, this being the Doctor, nothing quite goes to plan. Set after <i>The Big Bang</i>, so spoilers aplenty for the series 5 finale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wondrous Strange

**Author's Note:**

> The Turkish bath is a wonderful, traditional ritual that also just happens to be a slasher's dream. See the [Wiki page](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Turkish_bath) for more juicy titbits, like how the Ottoman era attendants (Tellak) were also sex workers who kept tallies of how many customers they brought to orgasm. History is so great like that. Also, I apologise in advance for giving my aliens the most blatantly slashy name ever.
> 
> Written for the [](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**kink_bingo**](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/) prompt: 'exposure/striptease' which I'm not sure I made kinky enough. But hey.
> 
> _Thanks to [Glitterburn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/glitterburn/) for an amazing beta job, as always. All remaining mistakes are totally mine._

_O day and night, but this is wondrous strange!  
_Hamlet_, Act 1, Scene 5_

It was supposed to be a short excursion, at least originally. The problem was, as Rory kept finding out (much to his chagrin), that with the Doctor, any assurances regarding time were inevitably as easily broken as soap bubbles on a hot day. Amy had wanted a trip to the resort moon of Antalius 4, or Rexon 7, or some other planet that sounded like it had come straight out of a bad daytime television movie. She'd insisted on having some girly time to herself, and the Doctor (damn him), had waxed on endlessly about the spa facilities on Rexoantalius Whatevernumber. So off she went on a one-week package deal, told them both to behave themselves and waltzed off into the care of several smiling four-armed spa attendants with green hair.

"So," the Doctor said, after Rory had given Amy a tenth goodbye kiss and forced himself to let her go, not least because he'd been dragged back to the Tardis by said Time Lord, "our first Lad's Adventure, all on our own! Where would you like to go?"

They'd decided on ancient Rome, because the last time Rory had encountered any sort of Roman, they'd been plastic, and the empire hadn't been located in Rome itself, but the Carpathian mountains.

"And I have a score to settle with Petronius," the Doctor had muttered darkly, half to himself.

He'd got the coordinates wrong, though. They'd landed in Rome, but a tiny, teensy bit later than they'd hoped.

"It's 1900!" Rory griped after reading several peeling posters on the wall of the stinking alley they'd materialised in. He pulled off the ill-fitting toga he'd found in the Tardis' wardrobe. He still had his shirt and jeans underneath the layers of wool, thank goodness. "You're two thousand years off!"

"So? We're in Rome, aren't we?" The Doctor's grin was bordering on the maniacal. "1900, you say? 'S a good year, y'know. Start of a new century, right before all the dictators and their mad regimes start being so popular and a good few decades before any of the genocide."

Rory pointed out that the first time he'd lived through 1900, the French had decided to annex parts of Germany as a joke.

"Alternate history, Rory. Never happened. But look!" The Doctor peered at a particular poster carefully, his nose almost touching the cheap typescript. "_Tosca's_ premiering tonight! How's that for luck; I'm going to take you to a proper opera. This one's very good. Puccini's brilliant. Well, mostly. Didn't like _Turandot_, myself. _Tosca's_ a touch melodramatic, but you know; Italians will be Italians. They're going to love it. And, we might get to see Queen Margherita. Makes a wonderful pizza, she does. The Teatro Costanzi's not far from where we are, I think. Probably. And it's still early enough for us to make it there in time."

Without quite knowing what was happening, Rory allowed himself to be shoved back in the Tardis and pointed at the wardrobe.

"Go and make yourself look presentable," the Doctor said, eyeing Rory's jeans with a slight expression of distaste. "Find a suit to wear, there should be quite a few from my days at the Paris opera. But don't take the plus fours, they're only for very special occasions."

Though he privately thought it was mad for anyone to actually own plus fours in the first place, Rory went and poked around in the Tardis' massive wardrobe and finally found a nice three-piece suit that didn't make him look like a disreputable waiter. The Doctor grinned widely when he re-emerged, resplendent in white-tie, handed him a top hat, and they made their way out into the cold Roman night.

Unfortunately, things like going to see the premiere of Tosca weren't ever simple with the Doctor around. The performance was very entertaining, Rory supposed, but he'd drunk just a little too much of the warm grappa that was being served at the private opera box the Doctor had secured to really concentrate properly. And it didn't help that the Doctor kept leaning over to whisper what he considered necessary explanations of the opera's plot (though Rory thought everything was pretty straightforward) , his lips brushing the curve of Rory's ear, sending a unexpected (though, if he was honest, not totally unwelcome) thrill down Rory's spine. The tone of the Doctor's voice, too, was very distracting. It was rich and warm and oddly hypnotic, somehow strangely suited to the liquor they were sipping, and just as heady.

Rory felt a little like a prince, up high in his royal box, with his enigmatic companion whispering scandalous information to him, hidden away from prying eyes. He missed most of the second act by downing a bit too much grappa quickly and listening to the Doctor's translations of the libretto instead of watching the buxom female lead strutting around on the stage.

The only slight problem with the evening was the fact that the Doctor had managed to get himself recognised by several Austrian diplomats, who seemed intent on dragging him away with them after the end of third act.

"What did you do now?!" Rory gasped, as they ran back to the alley and the Tardis with a group of unfit, portly men swearing loudly in German behind them.

"Not sure. Didn't recognise them," the Doctor said. "I haven't done anything yet. But I may do. Or I have done and managed to forget, which is impossible. Or they're aliens in disguise. Quick, there's a shortcut through here!"

'Here' ended up being over the parapet of a bridge over the Tiber, and Rory managed to lose his balance and fall into the stinking water before the Doctor pulled him up. They made it back to the Tardis before the Austrians could follow the trail of Rory's wet footprints and were away in an instant, the Doctor whooping with exhilaration.

"Well! How's that for your first opera! First violin was a bit squeaky at the start, I thought, but it picked up nicely towards the end." Dancing around the controls, the Doctor made a few adjustments and studied a monitor. "Still, I suppose you'd have liked to see the ending. Sorry about that. There's lots of lovely singing and everybody dies. Now, let's go somewhere exciting. Meteor shower on Euothen, maybe. Lovely little planet. Just one galaxy away -"

A pause. The Doctor sniffed the air.

"Rory, I don't mean to be rude or anything. But is that you I smell?"

Shivering, Rory glared daggers at the Doctor, who was pristine in his white-tie ensemble. _His_ suit was covered in river muck and he thought he smelt like a week-old drowned rat. The once snowy white gloves he wore were an interesting shade of putrid brown and his shoes belched black water with every step he took.

"Right. OK then; change of plan. Let's get you cleaned up. I know a great place!"

"Doctor?"

"Yes, Rory?"

"Can it be somewhere warm, please?"

***

So that is how they find themselves in Turkey. Istanbul, to be precise. It's a balmy summer evening in 1605 and it's late enough that the baths are almost empty when Rory and the Doctor walk in. The bathhouse the Doctor's chosen happens to be the newest one in the entire city, which means that there's less chance of them catching some sort of skin disease, Rory supposes. But it looks pretty enough from the outside, the torchlight illuminating the white exterior of the building so that it seems to glow in the warm darkness.

The bathhouse attendant eyes them suspiciously as the Doctor flashes his psychic paper at the man.

"Envoys from Sweden, you say? That explains your clothes." He is a small, wizened man with deep lines on his face and sharp black eyes. "We haven't had many of your kind here before."

"And that is a mistake that we shall be correcting right away!" The Doctor is maddeningly enthusiastic. "Look at my companion here; we've a meeting with the Grand Vizier tomorrow and I can't very well take him in smelling like something you trod on in the streets! I'd like to pay for the full treatment for him, if you don't mind. Spare no expense, that sort of thing."

"You're a good friend," the attendant says smilingly, as the Doctor hands over a fistful of gold coins. "Florentine gold! This is very rare, sir. I'll make sure he gets the best boy. Salim has gone home already, he is our best masseur, but I have a few more lads just like him. They will be very satisfactory, I assure you."

"Ah." The Doctor rocks back on his heels. "Rory, I think you should skip the massage. He'll skip the massage, thank you." This to the attendant, who is hovering nearby.

"I should? But I'd like a massage! My muscles are still sore from that mountain we had to climb last week. Actually, that's probably why I fell in the river…"

Flashing a quick 'I've just got to have a word with my young and naive friend here' grin at the attendant, the Doctor pulls Rory aside. "Listen, Rory, look - it's not just a massage they're going to give you. These boys provide a little bit more… relief than standard deep tissue relaxation, if you catch my meaning. And I don't want to get you into any awkward situations. Well, at least not whilst you're half-naked and Amy's not around. She'll kill me. Not so keen on being killed again just yet."

"Oh. _Oh_! Right." They turn back to the old man. "No massage then. Thank you."

Rory is ushered into a room where he proceeds to take off his sodden, stinking clothes, wrinkling his nose as he does so. The shoes are the first to come off, and he kicks them away gratefully, shucks off his heavy jacket, pulls off the bow-tie (decidedly _not_ cool, he thinks), then peels off his socks and starts on the buttons of his waistcoat. His fingers are numb from his impromptu dip in the Tiber and he has trouble undoing the fastenings, so it is something of a relief when the Doctor comes in to see how he's doing and offers to help.

"Thanks," Rory says, feeling a little silly.

"Happy to help out," the Doctor smiles. He pulls the waistcoat off and Rory starts on the buttons on his shirt. These, funnily enough, are easier to undo, so the Doctor sits and watches. He doesn't say anything, but his eyes follow the movements of Rory's fingers and flicker over the skin that Rory uncovers before he stands up and helps to undo Rory's braces so that he can get the shirt off. They stay silent the whole time. Rory concentrates on getting the wet clothes off and tries not to think about how natural this all feels, having the Doctor help take off his clothes, his fingers brushing over each area of Rory's skin that's uncovered, his mindless chatter absent for a change. Rory puts this down to the fact that he's had a bit to drink tonight, three hundred years in the future. After a few minutes, he's standing in his wet boxers and the Doctor hands him what seems to be a Turkish sort of sarong ("It's called a peştemal, Rory") to wind around his waist before he goes into the bathing area, his eyes conspicuously fixed on a point two feet above Rory's head.

"I'll see you in a bit," he says, "just got to check that the Sultan isn't getting up to any mischief. Well, no more than necessary. Ottomans seem to have devious encoded in their DNA. Which they probably do, now that I think about it. I should probably check that out too, since we're here. Anyway, I'll be back soon, don't you worry."

He leaves, but not before Rory notices the slight flush in his cheeks. It must be the heat, he decides. When he emerges from the dressing room, the old attendant pushes him towards the steam-filled central room and motions a young boy of about nineteen over.

"This customer is to be treated specially," he says, tipping the boy such an obvious wink that Rory has to resist the urge to protest that he's married, thank you very much. But he allows himself to be dragged over to a stone basin and be rinsed and scrubbed with hot water and a strong flowery scented soapy liquid. Then he's covered in foam, much to his surprise and slight discomfort. His protesting squawks are hushed by the boy, who huffily informs him that the days of smelly viking Varangian guards are over, and that really, this is the best way to get clean and if he'd stop moving about, they'd be done sooner. After the foam is washed away, Rory is pointed at the great stone platform in the middle of the room and told to rest there for a moment.

Happy to be free of any sort of scrubbing and foam, he lays down on his belly and soaks up the comforting warmth. The room is steamy, but the domed ceiling is pockmarked with holes to let in light and fresh air during the day, and Rory can see the faint glimmer of stars through them when he turns his head. He also notices that he's the only man left in the baths. It must be later than he thought. But the steam is wonderfully soothing and, combined with the grappa still working its way through his bloodstream, helps him to relax and unwind. Rory is grateful for the silence as well. Not that he minds having Amy around him constantly, much the opposite, or the Doctor's ramblings, but it's nice to be able to take a moment every now and again to appreciate the quiet. The memories come back to him now, all two thousand years' worth of them, and they're not all horrible. He's seen the rise and fall of five great empires, with all the glory and pomp that comes with them, as well as the decadence and ruin that inevitably follows. But the past can be overwhelming at times, especially when he considers that the events that he lived through never really happened at all. To Rory the recollections are frightening in their vivid unreality.

Then Rory wonders if all the time he spent being plastic makes him older than the Doctor, and shudders at the thought. It's a sobering idea to even conceive of being older than a Time Lord. Just as he's pondering the rather sombre tone his thoughts have taken, a pair of hands place themselves on his naked back.

"Relax," someone above him says. The voice is that of the young bathhouse attendant, deepened to a husky whisper in an effort to sound seductive. Rory wants to tell him that it doesn't really work, but the hands on his back start moving in slow circles, fingers pressing with just enough pressure to loosen his muscles and unknot tension he didn't know he was carrying. "Your friend said that he wanted to spare no expense, but refused the services we are best known for? A lie, surely. Perhaps he thinks you will not want me? Or he plans to keep you to himself?" Rory tries to say something, anything, but the fingers suddenly stop their ministrations and a knee in the middle of his back pushes him down with enough force to smash his nose against the warm surface of the stone. "Shh. That's enough. Nobody has said no to any of us before, and I do not intend to be the first to be rejected."

Helplessly, Rory feels the masseur continue his work, the nimble fingers teasing down the towel around his waist even further, so that his bare arse is exposed to the warm air. He scrambles against the slippery surface of the stone, but the boy holds him down with surprising strength and trails a finger suggestively down the middle of his buttocks. Mentally cursing the lack of plastic in his physiognomy for the first time, Rory tries again to break free with a rolling technique he learnt back in the legion, but fails and a hiss from above him betrays his assailant's excitement. Closing his eyes, Rory tries to prepare himself for the seemingly inevitable outcome.

"I don't think so." The Doctor sounds dangerous, his voice quiet and unnervingly even. "Get off him. Now." The boy, at least it was a boy the last time Rory checked, shrieks and jumps towards the Doctor, somehow having managed to grow leathery wings like a bat at some point, his teeth becoming sharp fangs.

These enhancements don't seem to have endowed him with much sense, however, because he manages to land himself on the sharp end of the pike the Doctor whips out. Howling, with the pike in its side, the boy-monster-whatever flies away, dripping black blood on the tiles. Rory gets up and makes to chase after it, but the Doctor pushes him back onto the stone platform again. He points the sonic screwdriver at Rory and does a full body scan, which apparently informs him that all of Rory's various bits are working all right, because he drops down next to Rory with a sigh of relief, patting him chummily on the back.

"Um." Rory's not sure where to start, but he tries anyway. "What was that and what was it going to do to me?"

"That was what demonologists like to call an incubus," the Doctor tells him, apparently oblivious to the fact that he's sitting in a steam-filled room in a hand-stitched suit, "but is actually a scout drone from one of the Venerian planets in the Hox solar system. Vicious things. They like to extract genetic material from their victims to add to their collection of trophies. That one would've most likely killed you afterwards, but it would have been the best orgasm of your life. They're highly allergic to silver, so lucky for us I just managed to find something whilst I was taking a walk outside. It'll probably be dead in a few minutes; they dissolve into puddles of goo, so there's no body to worry about. Makes tracking down their nests harder, though."

"Wait, wait. What?! Are you saying that whatever it is you just stuck with a spear wanted to -" Rory mimes a wanking motion with his hand, "so that I could be _collected_? For _fun_?! And I could have _died_?"

"But it would have been the best orgasm of your life," the Doctor repeats, as if this makes everything better. It really doesn't. "Sorry, Rory, I should have said something earlier on, but I only noticed when I saw the masseur go in just now. The boy's eyes were glowing green. I don't think the other staff had any clue. Actually, I think the old man out the front's in some sort of trance. The alien probably killed the original boy and took his form; they excel at shapeshifting. Terribly exciting. Rory? Rory, what's wrong now?"

Rory has started to shake with laughter at the absurdity of it all. In one day he's seen three-quarters of an opera, been dunked in a Roman river, chased by mad Austrians, had a bath in Ottoman Turkey, and almost been killed by an alien sex demon before it could give him the ultimate handjob, when all he wanted was to see real Romans. It's been a packed day even by the Doctor's standards, not that the Doctor has normal standards; he wouldn't know what to do with them. He must have repeated all of this out loud, because the Doctor takes the screwdriver out again for another scan.

"Point that somewhere else," Rory snaps, slapping the Doctor's hand away and earning himself a disapproving click of the tongue in response. "I'm fine. If anything, you look ridiculous sitting in here with that outfit on."

And then it strikes him that if he's sitting here, half-naked in a towel, having almost been killed (again), the Doctor should at least have the courtesy to take his clothes off as well. So he rolls himself onto the Doctor's lap and gets to work. He's halfway done with the buttons on the Doctor's waistcoat before the protesting starts.

"Rory!" Hands take hold of his, their fingers interlacing. "Bad, bad idea. We really shouldn't be doing this. I'm too old, too non-human and you're too… too married!"

"Yeah, well. One, I waited two _thousand_ years for you lot to turn up, and I think that makes me theoretically older than you are. Two, I was plastic, so I don't see how you being slightly non-human is going to be an issue. Besides, you're hardly going to get me pregnant. And, um. C, I _did_ run away with you on my wedding night, along with my wife. And the only thing that Amy's going to be angry about is that she wasn't around to watch. Any other objections, Doctor?"

"Dsdjkflskj," mumbles the Doctor. Then, softly, "Well, it's very sudden, that's all."

"Oh, Doctor," Rory pulls the Doctor's head forward so that their foreheads are touching. "Two thousand theoretical years taught me a lot of things about attraction; you're as subtle as a rhinoceros, by the way. Centuries of looking and not touching, that's what I remember. You owe me one night of experimentation after all that."

He kisses the Doctor soundly, while his nerve still holds. And it feels wonderful and scarily intoxicating. There is a firmness in the Doctor's kiss that Amy's soft lips lack, and whilst Rory would happily die if Amy was the only person he'd ever kissed at all, there is something deeply exciting about this that sends a surge of heat straight to his hardening cock. Their tongues touch tentatively and suddenly Rory feels himself being swept under a wave of lust, and he deepens the kiss immediately, his fingers threading themselves through the Doctor's thick mop of hair and holding him in place as they devour each other, the Doctor more than matching Rory's enthusiasm, drawing him nearer, fingers insinuating themselves on the knot of cloth that protects Rory's modesty. It is easily undone and Rory moans as the sensitive skin of his cock drags against the rough material of the Doctor's trousers.

Eventually, however, Rory pulls away, his breath coming in gasps as he tries to slow the wild pounding of his heart. He looks at the Doctor's dark green eyes and without another word, tries to unbutton the rest of the Doctor's clothes. He gets the waistcoat off, and most of the shirt, kissing each patch of milky white skin that is revealed to him. The Doctor groans a curse and abruptly tears both braces and shirt off, the buttons ripping free and scattering loudly against the tile floors. The woollen trousers fall to the ground and are quickly followed by greying underwear (Rory might have risen an eyebrow at that minor detail) before the Doctor leans back and pulls Rory on top of him. And Rory can't help himself. He growls at the sensation of having the Doctor's naked skin against him before he is pulled down for another bruising kiss that knocks the air out of his lungs.

For some reason (and Rory's overheated brain can't process much at the moment), the Doctor's skin is deliciously cool against his, and Rory can't stop touching it. He kisses trails up and down the length of the Doctor's body, studiously ignoring the Doctor's erection, follows the line of hip bone with his tongue until he hears a groan of protest and the Doctor's fingers tangle in his hair and pull him up.

"Rory Williams. That's enough teasing, don't you think?"

The smile on the Doctor's face has changed. Rory feels very, very vulnerable suddenly, not least because the Doctor has managed to roll on top of him and is looking very smug and a little too predatory. Rory gulps and the Doctor reaches behind him on the platform and produces a little bottle, the contents of which he pours onto his palm.

"D'you trust me?" the Doctor asks, his voice low and soothing.

Rory nods. "With my life," he says, meaning it. Then he gasps as the Doctor pushes a finger into him, and moans loudly as a second finger joins the first, opening him up gently. He makes an impatient noise in his throat, pushes down against the fingers for more.

"Impatient." But the Doctor's reprimand is half-hearted. His fingers pull out, much to Rory's annoyance, but are soon replaced by his slick cock, stretching Rory as it fills him up. The momentary pain is soon replaced by a deep burn of pleasure that makes Rory moan and arch up against the Doctor. He pulls the Doctor down for a kiss and groans into his mouth as the Doctor pulls out a little and begins to thrust into him rhythmically, the skin of their hips rubbing together with the motion. Rory reaches down and strokes himself in time, feeling the heat in his belly rise with every successive thrust. He wants to cry out, to swear, to urge the Doctor to please fuck him harder, but all that he can get out is a strangled-sounding mewl.

"Please," he finally manages, "oh _please_."

"What, Rory?" The Doctor's eyes are almost black in the dim light, his voice shaky with the effort of trying to control himself.

"Fuck. Ah! You feel so good. Just - just fuck me, Doctor!" Rory doesn't know where this is coming from, but he doesn't care. The slow pace the Doctor has set is driving him crazy. He strokes himself desperately, nips his teeth against the Doctor's collarbone and sucks at the flesh there. He is rewarded with a snarl that goes straight through him and nearly tips him over the edge, but it is the Doctor suddenly losing control and thrusting into him roughly that makes him cry out hoarsely and come, his spunk spilling over his pumping fist.

Rory feels the Doctor's own orgasm, hears a low groan before the Time Lord collapses on him, limbs heavy with post-climax weariness. They lie silent for a long time, Rory's brain too preoccupied with the fact that one of his long-pondered fantasies has just come to fruition and the Doctor apparently trying to catch his breath. After a moment, the Doctor kisses Rory tenderly before rolling off him. They both stare up into the honeycomb ceiling, watching the hazy steam escape through the openings in the dome before the Doctor chuckles softly to himself.

"Oh, Rory Williams. You are full of surprises, aren't you?"

"Well I did spend a lot of time with ancient Romans, Doctor. Never had the nerve to join in." Rory smiles. "Kind of wanted to know what it felt like, though. Everyone seemed to have lots of fun."

"And? Your verdict?"

"Mmm." Instead of answering, Rory reaches for Doctor and kisses him, slides an arm around the Doctor's waist and draws him closer. The Doctor scrubs a hand through Rory's hair and holds him in place, and soon Rory is rolling on top of him again, his hand wandering down the Doctor's body. "I think I could get the hang of things, yeah."

They slowly stroke each other to another shuddering climax, the Doctor skilfully drawing out Rory's orgasm until Rory is begging again before allowing him to come, his mouth over Rory's, swallowing his scream. Rory, for his part, does well enough with another technique he gleaned from the legion (thank you, occasional voyeurism), and the Doctor digs his fingernails into the soft flesh of his upper arms as he bucks against Rory.

"We should go," the Doctor says conversationally, after Rory's finally managed to catch his breath. "The people here probably want to close up. Also, they're going to think we killed one of the masseurs, which we sort of did. Well, I did. But it was going to kill you. We are lucky, though. A nest of Venerian scouts here! Who'd have thought!" He drops another kiss in Rory's hair and stands up, all awkward white limbs and sweat-slick hair, washes himself off with a sponge, dips it in a basin of water again and gives it to Rory to do the same.

Something clicks in Rory's fuzzy, post-orgasm bliss-filled mind. "A _nest_ of those things? What?" He struggles to his feet and tries to find the towel ("Peştemal, Rory") they tossed somewhere. The Doctor has managed to put his shirt and trousers back on, though the missing buttons in the shirt means that it offers Rory a wonderful view of the Doctor's naked chest. He passes his damp suit jacket to Rory, who slips it on gratefully. The Tardis isn't too far away from the bathhouse, luckily enough, and it is warm enough that he can walk back to its safety without having to worry about catching frostbite.

"They usually operate in groups of ten or more," the Doctor tells him as they make their way back to the Tardis. They pass the unconscious body of the elderly bathhouse attendant and Rory makes sure that he's in a comfortable position before hurrying after the Doctor, who's in a hurry. "Oh, this is brilliant! We only wanted to come here for a bath, but we get the Venerians as well! We'll have to track down their nest in the city, but that's easily done, of course. We'll just need a couple of things from the Tardis -"

"Doctor -"

"Yes?" The Doctor looks back at Rory, who feels absurd in his peştemal and suit jacket combo.

"How long will this take?"

They've reached the Tardis and Rory kicks off the towel and jacket and dashes into the wardrobe to find himself a pair of proper jeans and a t-shirt.

"About a week," the Doctor says, "at the most, I promise. Really, it's quite straightforward with the Venerians. They're nasty things, but easily got rid of if you're firm enough with them. Or have a sonic screwdriver. They can't stand the things. The only tricky thing is trying to track them down, and I should have a whatdoyoucallit somewhere."

"A whatdoyoucallit?" Rory tries not to look too worried, "They have, what, vampire bat wing things and fangs, and we're going to use a whatdoyoucallit."

'Yes, it's a very powerful tracking device. Looks like a hand mirror. Don't look at me like that," the Doctor waves a finger at Rory. "We won't be late for Amy. Time travel, remember?"

"But -" Rory doesn't have his next doubt out of his mouth before the Doctor is snaking arms around his neck and kissing the breath out of him again. Eventually they break for air.

"Trust me," the Doctor says, holding Rory still so he can peer into his eyes, his expression worried.

"Don't be stupid, of course I do." Rory smiles nervously. "Just, can we not call the tracking device a whatdoyoucallit, please? It sounds so… unthreatening."

"Well, we can hardly call it the Mirror of Doom, can we? That just sounds silly. Come on," the Doctor starts walking up the central staircase of the Tardis, in the direction of the various storerooms, "let's see if we can't save the world on our own before your wife gets done with her deep scalp treatment."

They do manage to save the world, in the end. Obviously. More than once.

And they manage to sneak in quite a few more shags before collecting Amy, who makes Rory recount every last detail afterwards, her hair a bright shade of green.

Stranger things have happened.


End file.
